


in the gardens and the graves

by alutiv



Series: make this world look new again [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mourning, Post-Reichenbach, Three-Flat Problem, but they're working on it, what we have here is a failure to communicate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2013-09-15
Packaged: 2017-12-26 16:49:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/968291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alutiv/pseuds/alutiv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i> John doesn’t want sympathy, not from anyone, but especially not from Greg. What he </i>does<i> want, he can’t say.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John wakes up in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room, a feeling that itself has become all too familiar of late. He is on his side, facing a blank wall, which is odd, because he can’t remember the last time he slept easily with his back to the door. And he has slept easily, slept well, slept better than since… well, _since_. The explanation for that must be the warm body still curled around him, chest against his shoulder blades, arm across his ribs, fingers interlocked with his. He squeezes Greg’s hand and shifts onto his back.

“Sleep okay?” Greg’s voice is rough.

John nods. He shouldn’t be here, he thinks. Greg has been so good to him, offering him comfort he isn’t even sure he deserves, but this is too much to ask.

Greg turns toward him, his eyes full of concern, and John can’t bear it, because it’s too close to sympathy. John doesn’t want sympathy, not from anyone, but especially not from Greg. What he _does_ want, he can’t say.

“I’ll just make some coffee,” says Greg, swinging his feet to the floor. He stands and stretches, his back to the bed, his shirt riding up, exposing his skin above the loose elastic of his pyjama bottoms. Biting his lower lip, John forces himself to look away.


	2. Chapter 2

Two years of sun and rain have worn away the headstone’s original shine, but the surface still dully reflects the image of John sitting in the grass, as well as the man approaching behind his back. John nods slightly, and Greg eases to the ground beside him, knees popping, setting a hand on John’s shoulder. This place is altogether too still and silent for the cyclonic force that John remembers. It feels wrong. Maybe that's why he hasn't been to visit in so long. 

After a long, silent moment, Greg says, "I didn't know you were coming today."

"I didn't either." He huffs out a laugh. "The last time, it was like I could talk to him, but..." He reaches up, covers Greg’s hand with his own. "Sherlock isn't here." In hospitals, on battlefields, places he doesn’t want to remember, John has seen life leave people’s eyes; dead means _dead_.  The body might be six feet down, but the man himself is gone.

“No,” Greg agrees.

“I miss him.”

“I know.”

“He’s been gone longer than I knew him.”

“Does that matter?”

“Sometimes, I’m jealous,” John admits, “of the time you had with him.”

John leans into Greg, who wraps him in an embrace and softly kisses the back of his neck. “I knew him longer, but you knew him better.”


	3. Chapter 3

John’s back is against the sofa cushion, his cheek pillowed on Greg's denim-clad leg. The hand carding softly through his hair fell still a while ago, its weight as solid and steady as Greg's breathing. John closes his eyes, and the words he's held back for months now finally slip out, barely audible.

Greg tenses, and for an endless instant, John wishes he could take the words back. He thought Greg was asleep, thought it was safe to admit to feelings he can’t believe are shared.

"I love you, too, John."

John lets out the breath he hadn’t realised he was holding and sits up.

Greg leans in and kisses him, a slow, sweet kiss that John would very much like to never end. This moment, this kiss, is more intimate than any they’ve shared. Greg breaks the kiss but doesn’t pull away, gently touching his forehead to John’s, too close to focus on his features. 

“We’re idiots, aren’t we?” Greg whispers.

“He always said we were.”

Greg laughs, which sets John laughing, and they both fall back, grinning. John stands, half-expecting the lightness in his chest to lift him right off the floor. He takes Greg’s hand and leads him to bed. 

By morning, there have been more words, and more kisses, and _more_ , and their feelings are perfectly clear.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a lyric from the Gin Blossoms' "Lost Horizons".
> 
> My thanks to [LapOtter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LapOtter) and [corpsereviver2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/corpsereviver2) for the "Three-Flat Problem" format.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Snow on Snow](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1017835) by [alutiv](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alutiv/pseuds/alutiv)
  * [When the World is Puddle-Wonderful](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1035599) by [alutiv](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alutiv/pseuds/alutiv)
  * [In Those Crystal Rills](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1049569) by [alutiv](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alutiv/pseuds/alutiv)
  * [Every Leaf Speaks Bliss](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091675) by [alutiv](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alutiv/pseuds/alutiv)




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